


Resignation

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst and Porn, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, Lack of Communication, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Akashi never asks questions. Nijimura appreciates that best, of all the things he appreciates about the other boy." Akashi and Nijimura avoid asking questions they won't get answers to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resignation

Akashi never asks questions.

Nijimura appreciates that best, of all the things he appreciates about the other boy. His composure is remarkable, his abilities astonishing, but it is his silent acceptance of his surroundings that Nijimura finds most comforting. He never asks why Nijimura's house is always empty, never comments on the absence of adults in a space far too large for one student; he doesn't even ask about the other's interest in him. Even when Nijimura closes the bedroom door needlessly behind them, when Akashi says “We're not going to be discussing the starting lineup,” it's a statement and not an inquiry.

Nijimura can feel his mouth twisting itself into a smile more bitter than he intends, the edge to the expression lost to the back of Akashi's shoulders. “We don't need to,” he says, leaving the door so he can step into the room, can brush past Akashi to sit on the bed. The mattress gives under his weight, the smooth line of the sheets forming themselves into creases around his body, and Akashi turns towards him without being told. “It's fixed, now.”

“Yes,” Akashi agrees. He sets his bag down carefully, tipping it so its weight falls against the legs of Nijimura's chair, as carefully unzips his jacket so he can slide it off his shoulders. The motion is smooth, elegant with the sort of striking beauty that comes from well-learned efficiency. Nijimura tracks the motion of the jacket, the way it seems to fall into neat folds in Akashi's hands before he drapes it over the back of the chair and steps in towards the bed. “There's no real need for further discussion.”

Nijimura could leave it at that. It would be easy to fall into silence, to let the quiet between them become something nearly companionable as Akashi's knee fits alongside his hip, as a hand settles at his shoulder so the other boy can move in to straddle his lap. But when Nijimura reaches out his hold is harder than it needs to be, fingers pressing against the edge of pain at Akashi's hips, and when he exhales it comes out raw around a humorless laugh.

“You know the team better than I do,” he says against Akashi's t-shirt, hissing the words until they sound like an accusation. Akashi's hands slide sideways over his shoulders, press up against the back of his neck with the same gentle deliberation he always shows, and Nijimura ducks his head and lets him continue while his mouth keeps moving on its own. “You're more the captain than I am.”

There's a bite under the words, a justification too faint for Akashi to make sense of. Nijimura can feel the edge under his own skin, cutting open his priorities ( _family_  over  _team_ ,  _father_  over  _basketball_ ) and laying the painful truth bare until it has to be spoken, even obliquely, if only to feel the harsh truth of the words tear backwards against his throat.

“Your experience is invaluable,” Akashi says over the top of his head, the level tone he uses that rings of absolute truth. Nijimura drags at his hips, urges his weight forward so he can breathe in the heat off Akashi's shoulder, and the fingers in his hair spread wide to dig bracing pressure against his scalp. “I am a better vice captain for your guidance.”

Nijimura's laugh lacks any but the barest hint of amusement, and all of that is twisted around to turn on himself, to scratch his thoughts aching with hurt to match the heat unwinding itself into his veins. “You shouldn't try to lie to me, Akashi,” he says, opening his mouth to bite at Akashi's skin. The pressure gets him a shudder of reaction, a brief gust of air as Akashi exhales hard; when Nijimura laughs again it's a little more sincere, a little less rough-edged with self-loathing. “You never really needed me there at all, did you?”

“I appreciate your support,” Akashi doesn't-answer, dodging even the rhetorical question on Nijimura's tongue. He arches his back, presses himself in closer so their hips come together; it's enough even with the barrier of their pants in the way, the heat of his body grinding against Nijimura's a distraction for the too-rational thought in Nijimura's mind. “I truly value you, Nijimura-san.”

“Sure you do,” Nijimura growls, the words feeling like sarcasm even though he knows Akashi is telling the truth, because Akashi  _always_  tells the truth, he's never lied that Nijimura has known in the months since they met. It's still a relief to his own emotions to let the words tear rough on his tongue, to brace his foot on the floor so he can twist them both sideways and topple Akashi over the bed. It's easier like this anyway, with Akashi's eyes wide and a little unfocused from the impact and his breathing knocked off-rhythm by the fall, the scarlet of his hair set off by the pale bleached-white of Nijimura's sheets.

Nijimura stares at him for a moment, lets the unjustified anger go cold and unspoken on his tongue. There's too much he could say – jealousy for the other boy's obvious talent, mostly, maybe concern for the wall he can see behind Akashi's eyes sometimes, the home life the other boy never speaks of. Affection, even, if he knew how to frame it, if he was sure that was part of the everpresent ache in his chest, like mourning for something lost before it was ever truly possessed. But Akashi doesn't move, and Nijimura doesn't speak, and in the end it resolves as it always does, with Nijimura leaning in as if called by the crimson of Akashi's bright eyes to press his mouth to the other's. They fit together smoothly, always better than Nijimura expects, and he can never be sure if it's his flawed memory or that Akashi really is getting better every time, arching up more smoothly to meet his touch and winding his arms around Nijimura's neck just as the other leans in to press closer.

It doesn't make a difference, of course. It's always perfect, or so close to perfect Nijimura can't see the gap, enough to chase away the hesitation that lingers in his thoughts and the bitter tang of judgment turned inward, the weight of the choice he will have to make, the sacrifice he has already made, if he's honest with himself. It's enough to distract him, enough that Akashi opens his mouth in invitation before Nijimura has thought to ask, enough to have a leg hooking against his hip to pull him down to the bed and close to Akashi himself.

They move well together, Nijimura has to admit. There's the question in his mind, again, as there ever is: is it that they are truly compatible? Is it just that Akashi is that good at reading people, that he can adjust his actions to mesh seamlessly with Nijimura's? Could he do this with anyone? But he doesn't ask, lets that question go to the graveyard of all their unsaid answers, and when he braces himself on an elbow to reach for Akashi's hip the other boy's fingers meet his, already easing the elastic waistband free of skin pale as Nijimura's sheets.

Nijimura pulls back, then, rocks his weight back over his heels. Akashi doesn't follow; it's easier to work his clothes free with his shoulders steady on the bed, the arch of his back enough to give Nijimura the leeway to tug his pants free. That's easy, too – Akashi brings his legs up, slides his feet free with more dexterity than Nijimura would dare to expect from anyone else – the elegance of the motion nearly enough to distract from the line of bare legs, the cutting-sharp dip of his hip and faint flush starting to climb into his cock. Nijimura tosses the pants aside, pauses to stare for a long moment, to glide his hands up along the outside of Akashi's legs, ankles to knees to shadow-textured hipbones. He doesn't look at the other's face – he knows without seeing that those eyes will be fixed on him, that mouth steady and calm but perhaps for the clinging damp of Nijimura's mouth still printed on him. He tips himself forward instead, spreads his hands wide to hold the other down to the mattress as he slides his knees back, and by the time he's ducking his head to fit between pale knees Akashi's going harder, breathing fast enough in expectation that Nijimura can catch the sound of alternate inhales.

He doesn't bother with any kind of warning. Nijimura may lack Akashi's preternatural intuition for the actions of others, but he's more than capable of learning from past experience. So he knows better than to start with teasing, knows that the best way to draw Akashi's breath into a gasp is to open his mouth and slide his lips down over the other's length all at once. There's a jerk of reaction, stalled and stopped by the hold of Nijimura’s hands, and a hiss of breath to match the rush of heat that twitches Akashi to near-instant hardness against Nijimura's tongue.

It's enough. Nijimura steadies his balance, tips his head down, adopts the well-practiced rhythm that catches Akashi's breathing out-of-sync in his throat. There's a hand at his hair, fingers winding through dark strands, and Nijimura keeps his eyes open, stares at the flutter of response against the flat of Akashi's stomach as he tightens his lips and sucks. He gets a hiss of air when he lets his mouth slide free, a shiver of response when he comes back down, and he contemplates continuing on, working Akashi over with lips and tongue until he can taste the bitter salt of the other's capitulation on his tongue. But Akashi's hand slides free of his hair, there's the shift of movement, and when Nijimura pulls away to look up the other boy is just pushing up to an elbow, offering the bottle Nijimura could feel him reaching for.

Nijimura accepts without protest. He's hard inside his jeans, his pulse thrumming hot against his spine, and he thinks it would be impossible, anyway, to try to resist the way Akashi's steady stare assumes obedience. He lets the other's hips go, takes the bottle from his hand, and while he slicks his fingers Akashi sits up entirely to tug his shirt up over his head. That's more skin bared, this time in the form of narrow shoulders and the telltale speed of breathing in his chest, but Nijimura reaches for Akashi's knee instead, pushes up until the other lets himself fall backwards over the bed again. Akashi lets his legs slide apart, makes an invitation of his body language rather than his words, and Nijimura takes it without doing him the disrespect of asking if he's sure. It's easy to fit a finger inside him, the motion as smooth with Nijimura's experience as everything is between them, but Akashi is burning hot to the touch, the heat startling even after dozens of repetitions. Nijimura hisses, reaction spilling from his lips even as he presses in deeper, and Akashi is arching up off the bed, chin tipped down as if he can see anything of import besides the shift of Nijimura's hand.

“Nijimura-san,” and he sounds calm here, too, as composed as if they were on the court. “Use two fingers instead of just one.”

Nijimura wants to ask if he's sure. He's forming the words on his lips, creasing his forehead with the uncertainty because it's too soon, isn't it, he's barely started and Akashi's still tight against his first finger. But he looks up, and catches the way Akashi is looking at him – dark, dark in his eyes, fire burning into shadows instead of light – and drags the question into a scowl of irritation as he pulls his hand back.

“I ought to be setting the pace,” he growls as he obeys anyway, his motions a little jerkier now with irritation than they were. There's resistance this time, enough to prevent his movements until Akashi lets one leg fall wider even than it was, and even then Nijimura is pushing hard, stretching Akashi open around his fingers with every inch he moves.

“My apologies, captain,” Akashi says. He's not looking at Nijimura anymore; he's staring at the ceiling, his mouth set in a line that says he's reaching for composure, that he's fighting to keep his expression neutral. “I intended that as a suggestion rather than an order.”

Nijimura frowns. There's too much of basketball practice in this, too much of their barely-balanced dynamic giving way for him to like. He can feel the walls of their accord collapsing around them, the chill along his spine wondering if this is the last time, if the fragile truce of mutual respect between them will even last out this interlude. But he can hardly complain; it's his own decision, after all, to skew that balance with his resignation, even if Akashi doesn't know it yet. He hardly has space to be irritated by this almost-insubordination from the vice-captain who long since surpassed him with regards to handling their over-skilled team.

So “Of course you did,” he says, sarcasm his only refuge in this, and thrusts his fingers in hard, as deep as they will go. Akashi's back arches, his eyes going wide and unseeing for a moment, and the spill of slick pre-come that catches against his stomach is like a victory all by itself. It's enough to make Nijimura smile, at least, even if the expression is taut and bitter at his lips, and when he draws back to thrust in again it's with intention, angling for the same shivering response he got the first time. This time he gets a whine, a choked-off whimper of response from Akashi's throat, and there's a flush coming now, too, color collecting across Akashi's cheekbones and over his shoulders like his hair has decided to share some of its color with his skin.

There's a rhythm to this, too. Nijimura finds it without reaching, fits the stroke of his hand and the press of his fingers to the inside angle of Akashi's knees, to the shivering breathless arc of his spine. It's easy to press him open when he's so ready to submit, to give himself over to Nijimura's greater age and accumulated experience without threatening the other's position of superiority. That burns through Nijimura, too, shudders anticipation along his legs and sparks heat up his spine, but it's nothing compared to the glaze that hits Akashi's eyes, the heat that finally melts the line of his mouth into huge gasping lungfuls of air.

It's not until his hands are reaching for the sheets, twisting into handholds as if to brace himself in place, that Nijimura slides his fingers free, lets the lube-slick heat of his fingers cool in the air while he works his belt and jeans open. It's enough time for Akashi to loosen his grip on the sheets, to bring a hand to press over his face, but it doesn't make a difference; he's still breathing hard enough for Nijimura to hear, still flushed enough for Nijimura to see, and his knees are still as far apart as he can spread them. Nijimura fits his clean hand back against the inside of Akashi's knee, tightens his fingers into an unnecessary hold to brace the other in place while he looks down to line himself up. He watches the first press, the half-inch of motion that slides the head of his cock into the slick-wet heat of Akashi's body; then Akashi makes a sound, an odd gasp of air, and Nijimura looks up instead to see the shift of the other's shoulders as he pushes into him. It’s satisfying to see the way Akashi’s mouth goes open on breathless heat, the involuntary reaction matching the tension Nijimura can feel collecting in the line of the other’s legs, and he keeps pushing forward, a slow steady advance until the whole length of him is buried inside the other boy.

“There,” he says, satisfied concession to speech, and he lets Akashi’s knee go, reaches out instead to brace himself against the bed alongside Akashi’s hip. It’s easier to move with this improved balance, frees his other hand to slide along the top of Akashi’s thigh, and by the time he’s fitting his fingers to the flushed-hot resistance of the other’s cock he can hear every breath Akashi is taking. There’s a jolt as he touches the other boy, a shudder of sensation that tightens against Nijimura’s cock, and he thrusts in harder in response, his breath rushing out of him in a groan at the feel of Akashi tensing around him. He starts to stroke, then, a slide of fingers as careful as he can manage, fits the pace of his movement to the arch of Akashi’s spine; with the other boy arced off the mattress Nijimura feels every tremor of breathing in his chest, can feel his reactions even if Akashi is biting his lip to silence, now, even if the palm of his hand is pressed tight to shadow the response in his eyes. Nijimura watches the white of sharp teeth against pale lip, grins open and unabashed with no one to see, and when he presses his thumb in hard against the head of Akashi’s cock he can hear the whine on the other’s breathing, the flush that crests over his shoulders in the moment before he can restrain his shuddering.

“Feels good,” Nijimura offers, a statement and not an inquiry, and he does it again. Akashi’s legs hook around his hips, this time, heels digging in against the small of his back; there’s a hand grabbing at his wrist, now, a desperate bid for control too shaky to effect any real dominance, and Nijimura tightens his fingers and strokes faster, enough that Akashi’s mouth spills open into a moan without giving him a chance to call it back. It’s straightforward from there, no special tactics needed; just the thrust of Nijimura’s hips, the quick-slick slide of his fingers, and Akashi turns his head against the sheets and wails a shattered note of instinct as he quivers and comes under Nijimura’s touch.

Nijimura feels Akashi’s orgasm all through his body, spiking heat up his spine as the other boy clenches against his cock and tingling satisfaction through his psyche to match. He lets his hold go as Akashi’s arching wail subsides into breathless tremors, plants his hand over the other’s shoulder to improve his balance, and when he starts to move in pursuit of his own pleasure it’s with the encouragement of the fire in his veins. Akashi is panting against the inside of his arm, trembling and glowing with the sweat collecting against his pale skin; Nijimura ducks his head, presses his mouth wet at the sharp line of the other boy’s wrist, and when Akashi’s arm slips sideways Nijimura follows it, shuts his eyes and focuses his attention on the friction against his skin and the tension building low in his stomach. He doesn’t want to see, he thinks, doesn’t want to know if Akashi’s expression is as stoic and calm as ever or dangerously unusual, warmer or softer or more intense than usual. Safer to leave the questions unasked, safer to leave the view unknown, safer to shut his eyes and thrust forward hard, fast, deep, until his fingers twist into fists on the sheets and the heat of satisfaction shudders under his skin to white out everything he knows.

Akashi’s hand is at his hair when Nijimura recollects himself. It’s not quite affection -- something a little closer to steadying, perhaps -- but his fingers are warm, soothing as they slide through the dark locks. Nijimura lingers for a moment, catching his lungs full of the too-humid air between Akashi’s shoulder and the press of the sheets; then he shifts his shoulders, presses himself up enough that he can take his own weight. Akashi’s eyes are calm again, as steady as if he were fully dressed and not still flushed with the aftereffects of pleasure; he disentangles himself from Nijimura’s waist as easily as they fit together, sliding back and sitting up at the end of the bed so he can smooth the crimson of his hair down against the pale of his skin.

Nijimura watches him without comment. He could say any number of things, all of them equally true:  _you’re beautiful_  comes to mind,  _I will miss you_  hard on its heels. He can feel the impending necessity of separation, the loss of this as well as basketball as soon as he offers his resignation as team captain; it aches in his chest, he is sure colors his eyes dark with shadows of not-quite-regret. It’s still there when Akashi looks at him, he knows; determination colored with sorrow, appreciation for something even as it crumbles out of existence. Without any understanding of it it must be unfathomable, unsettling at best and alarming at worst. Akashi looks at him, blinks slow contemplation over the uncanny red of his eyes, and doesn’t ask.

Nijimura wouldn’t have answered anyway.


End file.
